Fight or Flight
by low-lolita
Summary: An insight into the mind of Cato. The favourite to win the 72nd Hunger Games, Cato hails from the wealthy District 2, where the reaping is a celebration of strength and power. What catalysed Cato volunteering as tribute with such unwavering confidence?


Chapter 1

"Cato".

The voice reaches beneath the covers and stirs me from the inside out.

"Cato", the voice hisses.

My eyes fly open and I sit upright abruptly in my low-lying bed. Fragments of warm yellow and pink sunlight seep through the shutters, scattering themselves across the bedroom.

The voice speaks again.

"Too late, brother, you're dead". Micah leaps to the bed in one fluid motion and forces me on to my back, his knees pinning my elbows to the mattress. Sneering down from his vantage point, he mocks slitting my throat before releasing me.

"I knew it was you", I protest, heaving myself out of bed. I move across the room to the mahogany dresser and unfold a clean white t-shirt. Threading my arms into the sleeves, I swivel to hide my face from Micah.

_Dammit, Cato_, I curse, _never again. _I'm angered at the thought of seeming weak, especially in front of Micah. For as long as I am able to remember, Micah and I, along with our 3 brothers, have vied for the glory of being the fastest, the strongest, the bravest. With intensity far beyond sibling rivalry, it's a customary rite of passage in District 2. We're born competitors; bred to fight and to kill and to win.

"You'd have been dead before you even got a glimpse at your killer", taunts Micah.

"You know I'll be ready when it counts", I protest, spinning from the dresser to meet his gaze. I take 2 steps towards him and draw my chest full height, allowing me the pleasure of looking down on him. He may be 3 years older, but I surpassed Micah in height at age 14.

"Ease up, big boy", scoffs Micah, rapping me on the shoulder, "save it for the arena". He raises his eyebrows sarcastically, inviting me to contest him. As the victor of the 70th games, there is little I can say to trump him. Defeated, I shove him roughly aside and trundle down the wide staircase before collapsing wearily into a chair at the dining table.

For months, deep sleep has evaded me. It runs, and no matter how fast I chase, begging it to allow me to catch up, it slips through my fingers, leaving me worn and restless.

"Good morning, sweet pea", croons my mother, Selia. I find it ironic that her 'sweet pea' is, in fact, an 18-year-old boy in his seventh year of training to be a ruthless killing monster. She cranes to kiss the top of my head and sets down an enormous plate before me, piled with beef sausages, turkey legs, thickly shaved ham and scrambled geese eggs. The meat has been imported from District 10, and as the steam rises off the white porcelain plate the delicious aroma overwhelms my senses, and I begin shoveling forkfuls into my mouth.

"Manners, Cato!" my mother scolds, "chew with your mouth closed". Her principles are nearly laughable. I am 24 hours away from being transported to the Capitol, where I will sell my soul to the wealthy before entering an arena with the conscious intent to kill other children. And all in the name of revenge; the revenge the Capitol craves to punish their citizens for the sheer nerve to revolt. But our debt will never be paid and we will never be forgiven. 74 years on and still, we are paying the price. Redemption does not come cheaply.

"I'm hungry!" I retort without slowing down.

My mother purses her lips and stalks out of the room without another word. She's always on edge in the days before the reaping.

"I'll be dead envious if you're given better food than our games", muses Micah, "I nearly died of disappointment when we found nothing more than stale bread in the Cornucopia". He lowers himself into the chair opposite mine and ploughs into his pile of meat and eggs.

"Although" he continues, egg dribbling down his chin, "the weapons did a fine job of making up for _that_", he says, grinning at the memory.

I was 14 years old when Micah represented District 2 as a tribute in the Hunger Games. The 70th games were memorably gruesome, with the tributes bludgeoning one another to death with spiked maces. Micah emerged the victor in a record breaking 33 hours and 57 minutes.

"I wonder if Crane's feeling generous this year".

"He'd be mad not to throw you a bone or two", replied Micah, "he's been lacking his certain…edge".

"Give me a sword and I'll be the happiest tribute in the arena", I say, "I only pray 1 and 4 don't offer worthless meatheads who think they'll be able hide behind me and ride it to the end".

"Watch yourself, Cato", says my father, Parq, as he enters the dining room. "There's strength in numbers, and we won't know the capabilities of the other tributes until the training scores. It's nearly impossible to judge from a measly reaping".

"Where's Anther?", I reply, ignoring my fathers remark.

"At the dome", he says, "where you should have been an hour ago". While his tone is persuasive and not accusatory, I feel my cheeks flushing hot. Anther is 14, and well on his way to tribute-hood.

"Right. Sorry". I clear the remains of my meal into the bin my mother moves to the back gate every afternoon for the hungry to rifle through.

Although District 2 is considered a wealthy district, suffering exists. While the poverty is not to the extent the outer lying districts tolerate, its presence is a sharp reminder from the Capitol to the more fortunate. _Consider yourself lucky. We control you._

I lace my trainers and emerge onto the porch that wraps around the lower story of our wooden home. The white washed exterior walls and the navy blue window shutters are identical to every house in the victor's village. I take the stairs to the front garden two at a time and set off at a jog.

Reaching the boundary of the victor's village, I allow myself a glance backwards. An eerie stillness consumes the houses, the occupants of which are most likely sleeping. Although the sun has risen and the citizens of District 2 are going to work, the residents of the victor's village have earned their good fortune. The honor brought to our district by the victor's sacrifices alone warrants the luxuries and comforts afforded to them and their families.

The victors village of District 2 is largely occupied by my extended family; cousins, aunts, uncles, even one set of grandparents. Across 3 generations, my family has produced 8 victors, a Panemian record.

I retrieve my mind from its brief reverie and go on towards the dome, where I receive training that has secured my advantage over the other tributes, before even knowing who they are. Years of training have prepared my mind and body to enter the arena; I am strong, I am agile and I know my strategy. _Kill the weak and foolish at the Cornucopia. Band with 1 and 4. Pick off the others. Triumph over allies. Embrace the glory. _

As I reach the town center I slow to a walk, the meat and eggs leaving my stomach feeling queasy and unsettled. I am received with warm smiles and shy waves from strangers in the square, a frequent occurrence in the months that prelude the reaping. I nod curtly and keep walking towards the dome, the largest building in District 2. A solid steel structure, the dome looms over the shops and businesses in town, an omnipresent symbol of the ideals of our district: strength, power and success.

Although it's illegal to prepare tributes for the reaping, the boys and girls of District 2 are brought to the dome to undergo physical and psychiatric assessment at age 10. We are then divided into pools that are founded on potential, with the most promising children receiving the highest level of intense training. The children who rise to their training and impress the mentors progress forwards, with the contemptible and unworthy dropping back a pool. While all children receive training to the age of 18 to maintain the strength and dominance of our district, a male and female tribute are selected by the district mentors at age 16, allowing them 2 years to mentally prepare for the games, a distinct advantage over those who are given a mere week. The pre-selected tributes, or the Chosen, are then expected to volunteer in their final year in the reaping. While the Chosen, and more often the girl Chosen, are known to sporadically fold in the final moments and leave the reaping to chance, it is an unspoken decree that this cowardice is irredeemable.

In my heart, I know it is unfair the tributes from the wealthier districts enter the arena significantly favored. It is also unfair that each year 23 innocent children die for their ancestor's vain attempts at liberty. The Hunger Games are inevitable, and I see our preparation as our right to fight to survive. I am long past any bitterness or resentment towards the Capitol and their games. I know what my future holds, and I will charge towards it and embrace it with open arms.

I have accepted my fate.


End file.
